A Missing Piece
by iolre
Summary: Mycroft is the man who thinks he has everything. His perfect job. His perfect home. Even a little brother. Despite other people and their fascination with finding their soulmates, Mycroft has abandoned any idea of finding his 'Second', not after the traumatic death of the first person that was supposed to love him. And then Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade walks into his life.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This was written for rykoe-little-black-book, as part of the Winter Mystrade Exchange!

* * *

Mycroft Holmes tapped his long, elegant fingers as he regarded the CCTV monitors in front of him. His curious hum drew his assistant's attention, and she turned to look at him. He lifted an eyebrow, questioning. "Alie this week, sir," she murmured, most of her attention back on the mobile she held in her hand.

"Find out all you can about the man Sherlock is talking to," Mycroft instructed, leaning back in his chair.

"The silver haired one?" his assistant inquired politely.

"Yes." Mycroft lifted a remote and turned off the monitor, turning back to the files on his desk. "Set up a meeting."

"Yes, sir." She nodded her head and walked out of the room, the sharp noise of her heels on the floor the only sound Mycroft could hear. He allowed a faint smile to curve his lips - she was ever the good assistant, even if she did like to change her name from week to week. It was a useful skill, although he was forever calling her by the wrong name.

Pulling out the top file, he flicked it open, scanning it carefully and ensuring that there were no discrepancies with his memories. While he was careful to store information in the files he maintained in his mind, it was important to check for new developments. It wouldn't serve him well to be caught using outdated information. That was a security risk, and he didn't stand for those.

"Here you are, sir," Alie said, one hand extending the file to him, the other still tapping away at her blackberry. Mycroft inclined his head slightly, setting the file he had been reading to the side and taking the new one from her. "You have an hour before your meeting with the Prime Minister, and then you have a meeting with the Russian delegate later tonight."

"What about…" Mycroft paused.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"What about Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Mycroft finished.

"Tomorrow afternoon, in the normal spot."

"Satisfactory," Mycroft mused, flipping open the file.

"High praise from you, Sir," she murmured, and although Mycroft lifted his head to examine her face intently, he could not see any of the sarcasm he had heard in the tone.

"Out with you." He shooed her with a flick of his hand, although he could not deny a slight amusement She was cheeky, yes, but she was quite good at what she did. It was worth it to encounter the occasional sarcastic quip. It certainly lightened up the occasions he would work seventy two hours with only an hour or two of sleep. Not that he minded, not with so much work to do. Not when personal time simply meant time to reflect on his life. It was nothing that bore thinking about.

Mentally he shook himself out of his reverie, realized he was rubbing the back of his neck - an unconscious habit he had developed when he was a child. Although he had been able to break it in his adulthood, it still showed when he was tired. It was the third full day he had been awake, and although Mycroft's mind was not tired in the slightest, his body was showing signs of extreme fatigue. Bothersome. Regardless, he directed his attention to the file, memorising every last bit.

Gregory "Greg" Lestrade. 5'11", 46 years of age. Married once, recently divorced. Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard. Brief history of alcoholism, family has several addicts, but appears to be sober. Last check up was clean, no known health problems nor psychological disorders.

"Perfectly normal," Mycroft mused. "What are you doing with Sherlock, then?" He tapped his finger on the picture of the DI. Rather nice to look at, even Mycroft had to admit. Silver hair with remnants of the brown it had been originally, striking brown eyes, and a face that was handsome and enjoyable to gaze upon. He shut the file with a snap. No. None of that.

The marriage, however. That was certainly interesting. He allowed himself to open the file and checked a small box. The wife had not been his 'soul mate', then. Fascinating. It was rare the unbonded decided to pair up, for there were often consequences, but there had been occasions where such a thing had been done. Another quick browse confirmed his secondary thoughts. The DI was a Second, or a replacement for someone who had lost their soul mate. Someone's second chance. Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck for a brief moment, feeling the slight grit of the expensive makeup that covered it. It was his reminder, his memory, of times long gone.

Of someone he wanted to forget forever.

"Sir?" The clacking of his assistant's heels warned him just before she slipped into the room. "The Prime Minister is here."

"Of course, of course," Mycroft said smoothly, slipping the files that had been on his desk into a drawer and locking it discretely. "Come in."

The meetings were almost unbearably boring, but Mycroft handled them with his normal efficacy, his polite, diplomatic smile glued on his face. The sun was poking into the horizon up on the upper floors when he at last bid the Russians farewell. "Four hours, sir," his assistant told him, her eyes not leaving her Blackberry as she turned around and left, ensuring that the visitors left as they were told.

Four hours. He could sleep. Or. Mycroft reached over and grabbed the remote, clicking it on. The monitors flickered to life, and he surveyed them quickly until he caught sight of Sherlock. Sprawled out on his ratty sofa, obviously sleeping off a high. Mycroft's heart clenched painfully, and he quickly turned the monitors off. It hurt, as much as he didn't want it to. Sherlock had fallen so far from what he had been once. The cute, smiling, curly-haired boy that hugged his dog around his neck before running off with him for more adventures.

Enough. He stood, grabbing his umbrella and his mobile. A quick glance around his office ensured that everything sensitive was carefully stored in a locked compartment. "I am leaving," he informed his assistant.

"Yes, sir." Her eyes flickered to his face and then back to her mobile. "I shall send a car if you are not back before your meeting."

"Satisfactory." Mycroft checked his mobile briefly before slipping it into his pocket. He noted the date with a faint scowl. No wonder. It had been nineteen years since the Incident. Since he had learned to regard other humans with little but disdain. So instead, to clear his mind, he left the building, and walked.

It did not surprise him when he ended up in front of a small bookshop. He pushed open the door, ignoring the jingle of the bell as he did so, signifying to the merchant that he had a customer. "Hello," Mycroft said pleasantly, his congenial half-smile on his face. It wasn't real, and the merchant knew it, but he also understood, and that was a rare thing.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," he replied, setting down the rag he was using to polish the counter and running a hand through his short blonde hair. "What can I help you with today?"

"I only stopped in to see how you are faring," Mycroft mused, seemingly startled by his own revelation. "How is your rehabilitation proceeding?"

"Good, thanks," the man replied with a nod.

"And your living conditions are satisfactory?" Mycroft continued. Another nod. John Watson was a man of few words, especially when there was little to talk about. "If there is anything not to your liking, my assistant is at your disposal."

"Thank you," John said politely. He watched Mycroft with alert eyes. They were the eyes of a warrior who had seen combat. Who had fought through gunfire, tried to save the lives of countless other soldiers. They were eyes of the man who woke up every morning reliving those memories. He was perfect.

"How is Harriet?" Mycroft inquired, pulling a pocketwatch out of his waistcoat and checking the time. Less than an hour before he had to meet with the detective inspector. That left time for an update and for some brief research on exactly what Sherlock had been doing with the Met, other than nearly getting arrested or charged with possession again. So lost in his own thoughts that Mycroft nearly missed the faint sorrow that crossed John's face.

"Good, thanks," he said steadily, unwilling to betray any more.

"I am pleased to hear that." Mycroft kept his tone pleasant, his face neutral. "Regardless, I must be on my way."

"Always a pleasure to have you drop in," John muttered, resuming his polishing.

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment and left the store, swinging his umbrella as he pulled out his mobile with the other hand and started texting. The first was a request for a car, the subsequent texts for updates on Sherlock from several of his informants. He thought for a moment and then sent for a status update on the DI as well. It was generally preferred to have too much information than not enough, for one could not be properly prepared for battle unless one knew absolutely everything about one's opponent.

Within two minutes, a car slid up next to him and he had the requisite status updates in his inbox. He rather disliked having 'free time'. Particularly when it came in the amount that he could go back to his office, but then he would have to leave again to attend another appointment. It seemed wasteful. "The warehouse," he said curtly, tapping on the divider between himself and the driver. Quickly the car slid away from the curb.

A nap, Mycroft decided, ignoring that the backseat of his innocuous car was probably not the most suitable place for a nap. When he was approaching three days of no sleep, he took his naps where and when they were able to. Mycroft had polished the skill of catnaps, in which twenty minutes sleep snatched here and there could fuel him for three or more days. REM sleep, as ever, was preferable, but Mycroft had long mastered pushing his own boundaries. He had to.

A half hour later and Mycroft was awake and alert, standing in the warehouse and leaning lightly on his umbrella as he managed part of the free world on his mobile phone. His assistant had texted him some documents that needed perusing, determining which pieces of legislature needed a nudge in what was considered the polite direction.

"Who are you?" Mycroft started slightly. He hadn't heard the other man approach, and had only dimly registered the sound of the car re-appearing with his intended prey in tow.

Pocketing his mobile, he lifted his head with a smile. "An interested party."

"Interested in what?" Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade challenged, cocking his head to the side. Mycroft smirked. Oh, so this one thought he was smart. Pitiful.

"What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?" he inquired mildly.

"Who's asking?" the DI said sharply, pulling a mobile out of his pocket and rolling his eyes at it. He had received a text, Mycroft noted from the small flashing light he caught a glimpse of. Sherlock, perhaps? Or one of his subordinates?

"It is as I said. I'm an interested party," Mycroft replied smoothly.

"Why kidnap me?" the DI asked. "Why not go to him directly?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm certain in your dealings with Sherlock you have noticed that he might not be the most - honest person about his own condition, nor does he tolerate inquiries as to his health and overall well being." Mycroft tapped his finger on the handle of his brolly. Boring. They were all so boring. He was almost envious of Sherlock, with his chemical method of coping. Mycroft had no such means. "However, you are looking out for him, are you not?"

"A bit," DI Lestrade replied evasively. "Look, I don't care who you are. If you want to know that berk's business, you ask him. Not me. Now, if you don't mind, I have a crime scene to get back to. I've got to get there before he does."

Mycroft curved his lips up in a smile, although he was aware how frightening it often came across as. "My driver shall ensure that you reach your destination at the pace you require," he said graciously.

"No, thank you." DI Lestrade tipped his head in a mock farewell. "I can make it on my own."

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment, although he could not help the way his eyes followed the other man as he ran out of the warehouse. "Sir?" His assistant stood next to the open car door, her eyes as intent on her phone as ever. "Shall we be going?"

"Yes," he allowed after a few moments. "Upgrade surveillance on Sherlock and this Detective Inspector."

"Yes, sir." Mycroft straightened up and slid into the car, his assistant shutting it as soon as he was settled. He needed more data. There was something strange about the DI, something he could not puzzle out.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sorry for the long delay between chapters. As a grad student, real life/classes/work has to take precedence over writing, which is why it took me so long. It shouldn't be this long before the next update, but I can't make any guarantees. Anyway, here's the next chapter!

* * *

Mycroft watched the DI enter the rather noisy cafe, striding to the register with a smile and ordering his normal drink. He took a sip of his own drink - coffee, two sugars, allowing for a bit of a sweet tooth - and stayed silent, watching the DI over the rim of the mug. The barista handed the coffee to Lestrade, who turned to grab some sugar. In doing so, he noticed Mycroft in the corner. Their eyes met, and Mycroft's narrowed slightly at the way Lestrade's movements stilled for a brief second. So he felt it too. Felt the tug, the spark - whatever the world chose to call it. Mycroft chose to call it inconvenient. Unnecessary. Unwanted.

All it had taken was a little bit longer. A closer look at the paperwork. A more thorough view of the security cameras. Then he had seen it. Seen it when Lestrade had bent over, checking out a corpse on the floor. Saw the mark on his neck, plain as day. Unlike last time, he wasn't wearing a jacket, so Mycroft could see the bare skin. See the mark that matched his. Lestrade had been reassigned to him. Had become his Second. His Soul Mate.

Unlike Mycroft, who hid his mark with carefully applied makeup, the DI bared his for all to see. He probably didn't think much of it. Seconds had bare skin, until they were chosen, and then the mark appeared on their neck. Those that didn't hide, those that showed everything - Mycroft curled his lips slightly in disdain. The Firsts were seen as outgoing, congenial. Open and warm. The Seconds who didn't hide were seen as desperate. Wanting. A few just didn't care. They didn't have the silvery sheen that made it so difficult for Firsts to hide - theirs were plainer, darker against their skin, like a normal birthmark. A few just didn't care. Mycroft hid his for political reasons. Safety. He didn't want anyone else to have that power over him.

Mycroft looked away, pretended not to notice as Lestrade walked over and sank into the seat. "You again." The voice wasn't friendly, but it wasn't openly hostile, either. Interesting. "What do you want?"

"I was merely enjoying my coffee, Detective Inspector." Mycroft inclined his head slightly.

"And Sherlock is the Tooth Fairy. Do you want to try that again?" The DI leaned back in his chair, his expression conveying his skepticism rather blatantly.

"I meant what I said," Mycroft answered simply. "This is merely a coincidence."

Lestrade sighed. "Alright. I'll inform Sherlock that he is now required to wear a tutu if he wants on my crime scenes."

"No doubt he will be thrilled with such a proclamation," Mycroft muttered sarcastically. He scowled inwardly at his tone, and took a sip of the coffee.

"You're his brother?" Lestrade cocked his head to the side. It was a guess, that much was obvious from the tone, but it was not a leap that Mycroft had expected from the other man.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just say so, then?" Lestrade asked, his tone a modicum more polite.

"Sherlock would be less than pleased at the thought of me inquiring as to his health, especially in his current state." Mycroft couldn't stop the slight, worried frown that crossed his lips, a lingering reaction to thinking about Sherlock's drug habit. When he refocused, he resumed eye contact, noting the shift in the DI's expression. Pity. Understanding, with a tinge of warmth. It was far lighter than the scorn he had been given, minutes ago.

"Yeah, that I can understand." Lestrade glanced at his watch, grimaced, and drank half his coffee in one gulp. "I have to run. Call me and we can set up a time to chat about Sherlock. No kidnapping, mind you. I have too much paperwork."

Mycroft blinked. And blinked again. The other man was agreeing? "I can offer a substantial sum -" he started.

"No." Lestrade cut him off, gathering his coat, digging through his pockets, searching for something. "I don't want anything. Look, it's obvious that you care, and Sherlock is Sherlock. I know I said I wouldn't tell you anything, but you're his older brother." Lestrade continued staring at him like that should mean something to Mycroft.

In a way, it did. It brought back memories, feelings, flashes. Of times when Sherlock, all bright-eyed and curly haired, would sit in Mycroft's lap, seeking reassurance, security, while Mycroft would spin tales of what their life would be, when they could have a family of their own. Away from the family that did not love them. Did not need them. When the family dog passed away when Sherlock was four, Mycroft held him, like an older brother should. He stood by Sherlock's side, twelve years later, when he lost his own dog. Sherlock was older, then, and didn't show as much emotion, but he gripped Mycroft's arm in wordless thanks.

And then He had entered Mycroft's life and everything that had been promised fell apart.

"Mr. Holmes?" The DI's voice broke him out of his reverie, and Mycroft's eyes snapped to his face.

"My apologies," Mycroft said stiffly. He stood, extending his hand for Lestrade to shake. The DI eyed him warily, but extended his own. The handshake was brief, but still too long. Lestrade's hand was warm and comfortable, his palm fitting perfectly into Mycroft's. He hated it. "I shall contact you soon, to arrange a meeting."

"I look forward to it," Lestrade replied, only the barest hint of sarcasm underlying his tone. Then he gathered his things, drank the last of his coffee, tossed it in the bin, and went out the door. Mycroft watched him go.

It was three days before Mycroft rang the Detective Inspector. He was busy, after all. An entire country counted on him to keep it tidy, in line. He couldn't be expected to drop everything and make a simple phone call. His to do list was just too long. So when he finally ran out of excuses, he sat in his office, staring at the desk phone. There was nothing to it. Lestrade was nothing special, was just another lackey that had eyes on Sherlock.

There was absolutely nothing that made him any different than anyone else.

Mycroft's stomach did an unnecessary flip when he heard the DI's voice. "Hello?" Lestrade sounded tired. Harried. Like someone had been shouting at him all day and all he wanted was for it to stop and for the world to quit moving for one moment.

"Detective Inspector." Mycroft sounded stiff, like starched cotton. He grimaced. The very least he could do was sound warm and personable. Or a vague semblance thereof.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." Mycroft couldn't see him, but could imagine him leaning back in the chair, tucking the phone to his ear. Could hear the faint smile in his voice. Smile? Was he smiling? Mycroft wished he had a camera in Lestrade's office. He obviously needed to assess whether or not the police man had gone mad. "How can I help you?"

"I am calling to schedule the aforementioned meeting to discuss Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said icily. Distance. He wasn't going to let him any closer than he had to. Mentally he wrestled control back from the part of him that wanted to get to know the DI, that wanted to be kind, friendly - make Lestrade like him. That was absurd. It was unacceptable. Closing his eyes briefly, he shed his insecurities, slid into the politician persona he had perfected. "I am free tomorrow afternoon, Wednesday evening, or Saturday."

There was faint scrabbling noises, like Lestrade was moving paper around, grabbing his diary, flipping it open to the correct page. "Wednesday evening looks good for me," he said easily. "About 7?"

"That shall be satisfactory. I shall have my driver pick you up." He heard Lestrade start to protest, and shook his head. "I do insist."

"Well, alright," Greg said, long-suffering, like he was used to fighting losing battles with a Holmes. Mycroft realized with faint amusement that he likely was, as Sherlock never gave up without a fight. No. Mycroft frowned at the phone. He was not supposed to be amused. He was not supposed to be smiling slightly. None of that.

Without saying good-bye, he hung up the phone. Stared at it. Realized his hands were shaking. That he had been holding his breath. His cheeks were flushed. He felt too warm. Part of him wanted to grab the phone, dial the DI's number again, and listen to his lovely, soothing voice. No. He slammed the phone for good measure, drawing the attention of his assistant, who poked her head in the door. "Sir?"

"Pencil in a meeting with the DI. Seven PM, Wednesday night." Mycroft's voice was tight and controlled. Alie - Anthea this week, apparently - merely nodded and shut the door, leaving him to his devices. He placed his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. Trying to shut it all out. Everything. Delete all extraneous pieces of information regarding the Detective Inspector. He regretted ever learning about his symbol. Learning who he was.

It brought back memories of Jack. Of the way he would lean into Mycroft's side. Kiss his head, Ruffle Sherlock's curls, bring that bright grin to his face. The warmth and security he provided. The first time, after years of uncertainty, that Mycroft had felt safe. Wanted. Like he mattered. Then the words had turned cruel, slowly but surely. What had been endearments quickly turned less affectionate. Jack had grown bitter. Hateful. Mycroft had taken all of it, because that was what he did.

And then Mycroft had came home from work, just as a junior member of the government, and discovered Jack - Him, Mycroft dubbed the man in question - stretched out on the bed. A gun in his hand. A note on the nightstand. Mycroft was still standing there, eyes wide with shock, when Sherlock found him. Then everything had fallen apart.

Mentally he shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs, the old memories. He had to focus. Carefully he unlocked his top drawer, pulling out the confidential files contained within. There was plenty to do before Wednesday. Hopefully enough to distract him from what lay ahead. Settling back in his chair, he read.

Wednesday rolled around far too soon. Mycroft had gotten four hours of sleep the night before (the most in two weeks), and felt relatively well rested. However, the country had been unusually obedient, and there was little for him to do in terms of busywork. He did not even have any meetings scheduled until Thursday afternoon and all preparation had been done earlier in the afternoon. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Time was moving agonizingly slow.

He smoothed his lapels, readjusted his cuffs, fidgeted with his cufflinks. Leaned backward in his chair, picked up the remote, and pushed the button, watching the monitors flicker to life. He zoomed in on one. It was a crime scene, and Sherlock was arguing with the DI - Lestrade, Mycroft reminded himself. The long, spindly limbs were flying about as he shouted and rolled his eyes and spoke in what Mycroft could imagine was an exaggerated, sarcastic tone.

Sherlock looked - marginally healthier. He didn't look high. His pupils were normal size, and although he jerked about, it wasn't as sharp as it was when he was intoxicated. Lestrade stood his ground, rolling his eyes in response and trying to placate Mycroft's irritated younger brother. They were gesturing over a body in front of them, Sherlock obviously agitated over something the DI had missed. Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his eyes sweeping the scene. Based on posture, movement, and what he could read from their lips, he guessed that Sherlock had solved the case and Lestrade was arguing with him to ensure he explained some of the more nebulous findings. Sherlock had not yet perfected his clarity when explaining deductions, not to normal people

He watched as Sherlock stormed off, leaving Lestrade behind. One monitor was set to track Sherlock's movements, but his eyes did not leave the crime scene. He stood, and walked closer to it, watching the silver-haired man give orders to his team. Lestrade wasn't harsh, he wasn't domineering. He was the right mixture of order and chaos, control and disarray. The DI seemed to have a knack for knowing who to tell what, in order to get everyone to obey and work cohesively.

Mycroft didn't realize he was touching the monitor until he caught sight of his fingers splayed out against the screen, as if he could feel Lestrade's face through the pixels, through the LCD lights. It was a picture of what could be, if Mycroft wanted to reach out and take it. Something within his grasp. Happiness. He let out his breath, a slight sigh. It wasn't worth it. It never was. "Sir?" Anthea's voice was quiet, unobtrusive, and Mycroft jerked his hand back as if he had been burned.

"Yes?" He turned slightly to look at her, his face sharp, guarded.

Her eyes flickered to the clock, and Mycroft's gaze followed. He had not realized how long he had been watching the CCTV. "It is time for you to leave for your meeting with the Detective Inspector," she said simply.

"Yes, alright." Mycroft cleaned off his desk, locked up what needed to be taken care of, and followed her out of his office.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Slightly less time than last time. Whoops. Anyway, here it is! Enjoy! I have an update schedule mapped out, but school takes first priority, so no promises.

* * *

There certainly weren't butterflies in Mycroft's stomach as he sat in the back of the car on the way to retrieve the Detective inspector from New Scotland Yard. He smoothed down his suit jacket and sat his umbrella to the side. A glance out the window showed him he had approximately five minutes until his driver was due to pick up the DI. Until the DI would slide in the door, would sit there, stare at him, and attempt to make conversation.

Mycroft pulled his phone out and checked his email, scrolling through a few documents that had arrived in his inbox since he had left his office. He was so absorbed in one particular document detailing a minor happening in a minor country of no particular importance that he didn't notice that the DI was in the car until he spoke. "Something important?" Lestrade inquired mildly, glancing at Mycroft.

It was only impeccable self control that kept Mycroft from nearly jumping out of his skin. He closed the document, locked his phone, and slid it back into his pocket. Inwardly he damned Lestrade in multiple ways. That was the downside of their bond, of the immediate, unnatural comfort that existed between a bonded pair. The DI did not register as a threat, and Mycroft felt at ease around him. It was problematic.

"Nothing of significance," Mycroft answered stiffly, crossing his leg, ankle over knee, and setting the brolly on his lap as some sort of defense mechanism. There was really little it could do, but he felt better with it in his hands.

"Right," Lestrade said, the vague amusement in his voice making Mycroft more apprehensive than he already was. "Where are we going?" he asked nonchalantly.

"A small, local place," Mycroft said absently, staring straight ahead. His body was tense, so tight that he felt like he might snap. The car was suddenly too small. He needed to get out, get away. "I know the owners, and the cuisine is exceptional."

"Oh good," Lestrade said, sounding relieved. Mycroft glanced briefly over at him, registering the relieved smile on his face. He quickly regretted it, for his stomach was now determined to twist itself in knots. Mycroft wasn't nervous. That was absurd. It was merely a work meeting, nothing more. The car could not arrive at its destination soon enough.

Once it pulled up to the pavement Mycroft got out, hooking the umbrella on his arm and nodding slightly to Anthea in the front seat. Lestrade got out second, standing next to him. "So," Lestrade said, and Mycroft saw him examining him out of the corner of his eyes. "Should we go in?"

"After you." Mycroft inclined his head slightly, gesturing to indicate for Lestrade to go ahead of him. Which was a mistake. Lestrade was wearing neatly-fitted black slacks and a maroon button-up, both of which accentuated the figure of his body quite nicely. Especially his bum. Mycroft swallowed and followed the DI into the restaurant.

The waiter quickly led them back to a small nook, allowing Mycroft to see the entire dining room at one time. Both men quickly settled into their chairs, Lestrade nodding his thanks to the waiter who took Mycroft's wine order and scurried off. "They know you here," the DI commented, picking up the menu and scanning it. "Come here often?"

Mycroft considered the potential implications of such words, considered what Lestrade might possibly be asking. "I frequent this particular restaurant on occasion," he answered.

"Alright," Lestrade said, nodding his head in acknowledgement. The waiter came by with the wine, and Mycroft sipped it, tasting it to ensure it was to his liking, before allowing both glasses to be poured. Both men ordered, and the waiter was off again.

"How did you meet Sherlock?" Mycroft steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them, watching Lestrade intently.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his gaze skeptical. "I'm sure you already know."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "That is a possibility. Regardless, I would prefer to hear your interpretation of the situation."

"Right, then," Lestrade said, bemused. "My interpretation of the situation. Sherlock came onto one of my crime scenes, high as a kite, and gave us the murderer, right then and there. Crazy berk, but he was right." The DI shrugged. "I took a chance, with him, and checked out his leads. Told him as long as he was clean, I can give him work. Can't pay him, mind you, but it's something."

"How long have you been working with him?" Mycroft inquired. His full attention was on the DI, searching for any minute sign of hatred, of irritation. Any sign that he was unfit to work with Sherlock or that Sherlock was in any risk of danger under his supervision.

"Couple months," Lestrade said after a few moments of thought. "He's been clean about half the time. I've had to kick him off the occasional crime scene, which I'm sure he hates, and about two thirds of my crew hate him, but it's worth it."

"So you can take credit for his work, then?" Mycroft straightened his posture, eyes narrow and speculative as he lifted the wine glass to his lips and took a sip. Anger and irritation flashed across the DI's face. Mycroft had hit a nerve.

"Look, if you're here because you think I'm using Sherlock, then you're a bloody fool," Lestrade snapped, anger simmering just under his surface. Mycroft ignored the vague flash of fear. It was too similar to Him, to Jack, and for a moment, he was afraid. "Sherlock…" Lestrade took a deep breath, his eyes closed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look," he said, using a hand to punctuate his words. "Sherlock allows us to solve crimes that would go unsolved otherwise, right?" Mycroft inclined his head slightly. "That's what I care about," Lestrade said firmly. "I don't care who gets the credit. Sherlock won't take it. I'd give it to him if I could. I want to be able to find out who hurt these people so that those bastards can pay for their crimes. That's what matters."

Mycroft took another drink of the wine, watching Lestrade intently. The other man had calmed significantly, but Mycroft could read his irritation in the subtle shift of his body, the way his fingers tapped against the table, the slight motions his hand made as he sipped his wine. Their meals came, and Mycroft glanced down at his salad before looking over at Greg's chicken parma. At least the food was a way to avoid conversation for a few moments longer.

"Sherlock said you're dangerous," Greg remarked, about halfway through his chicken.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, surprised. "He has been known to exaggerate," he commented, delicately taking another bite of his salad.

"Told me to tell you not to start a war," Lestrade continued, taking a bite of his chicken. "Even warned me not to come tonight."

Mycroft stilled his fork, lifting his gaze to meet Lestrade's. "Did he."

"Said getting involved with you was trouble." Lestrade's eyes were steady, curious. "Any idea what he meant by that, Mr. Holmes?"

Damn Sherlock. Mycroft fought a scowl. He knew, then, that Lestrade was his Second. Knew what their connection was. "I have no idea what Sherlock was going on about," Mycroft said, taking another sip of his wine.

"Oh, of course." Lestrade briefly smiled and focused back upon his food. Mycroft watched him intently for a few moments, studying the nonchalant way that he ate. He did not believe Mycroft, not one word, but was polite enough to not mention it. Doubtless he would be asking Sherlock more questions. Mycroft had to head that off, distract the DI with something else.

"I must request your assistance, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said, fingers linking so he could rest his chin upon them. "I have a sensitive matter that concerns Sherlock that he must not know I am involved in."

"Is it legal?" Lestrade asked suspiciously. "And please, call me Greg."

"Greg." The name felt right on Mycroft's lips, and his stomach flipped pleasantly. He ignored it. "You may call me Mycroft."

"Honoured," Greg replied with a hint of sarcasm. He seemed more amused than annoyed.

"I know who Sherlock's soul mate is." Greg's eyes widened at Mycroft's words, and for a moment, Mycroft had to wonder what it was like, in Greg's shoes. To be considered a second-class citizen, only wanted when someone else had a need for him. To look for the person that would complete him, would make his life whole, only to never find him, because he did not want to be found. It felt like he had been stabbed, realizing what he was doing to the other man, and for a single second Mycroft regretted his choice. Quickly he shoved aside those emotions, that thought. He had to focus.

"He was a medic in Afghanistan when I found him," Mycroft stated. "I brought him home and he has been in my employ since."

"Why haven't you told Sherlock?" Greg inquired. He seemed to have finished his meal. Mycroft unlinked his hands, leaned back in his chair.

"Could you imagine Sherlock's reaction to my introducing his partner to him?" Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "I doubt it would be a positive one. Especially if he knew I had a role in his retrieval."

Greg nodded in agreement. "He would probably reject her just because he could," he mused.

"Him," Mycroft corrected.

"Him, sorry." Greg offered an apologetic smile. "What do you need me for?"

"You have the Kensington case, do you not?" Mycroft's gaze was intent, gauging Greg's expression, his motivation. Everything that showed up on his face, Mycroft took note of. It was research, of course. Nothing more. He needed to understand this man in order to assess his impact upon Sherlock.

"Yeah, that's mine," Greg said with a nod. "Having a hard time with it, though." He grimaced. "The army base is not cooperating."

"Allow him to consult with you on the crime," Mycroft said evenly. "Allow Sherlock to work with him. His knowledge of the military and its politics will be invaluable to you."

"That's it?" Greg asked.

"Yes." Mycroft and Greg studied each other. A part of Mycroft wondered what the DI was looking for, what he was measuring. What was going through his head. What he thought of Mycroft, of their discussion.

"Alright, then," Greg agreed. "Send him my way tomorrow, and I'll call Sherlock in."

"Shall I escort him or would you prefer him come unaccompanied? His name is John Watson. He works at a small bookstore, off of Baker Street." Mycroft ignored the way Greg's smile made his heart race, the way the genuinely happy expression on his face made Mycroft want to smile back. It was all inconsequential. Greg was a work contact, nothing more. He was simply a link to Sherlock. No matter what society told him, there was nothing between them.

"Drop him off at the Yard tomorrow around noon, if you can," Greg said after a few moments of thought.

"Certainly." Mycroft looked at his food, and then at him. "Unfortunately, I believe my available time has come to an end. Is that amenable?"

"What?" Greg blinked, momentarily confused. "Oh, yeah, I'm done." He pushed back his chair and stood, allowing Mycroft to lead the way out of the restaurant. "Don't you need to pay?"

"It has already been taken care of," Mycroft assured him, heading towards the black car with the open door. He slid inside, brolly in hand, and Greg sat next to him. He was too close and too far at the same time. Automatically Mycroft crossed his leg, ankle over knee, and placed the umbrella on his lap, the same posture as before. It created distance. It protected him. The car slid away from the pavement and the car fell quiet.

"Will we be doing this again?" Greg asked conversationally. "The talking about Sherlock bit, at least."

"Certainly," Mycroft replied absently. "I am quite interested in your perceptions of his behaviour."

Greg hummed his agreement, and the two fell silent. It was a comfortable silence, as much as Mycroft hated to admit it. It felt like he had known Greg for years, like there was a level of familiarity that should not exist but did. He wanted to scoot closer. Touch him. Kiss him. Take him home. But it was wrong, all of it was wrong. He couldn't. That would be risking something that he was not willing to give up, not again.

The car stopped to allow Greg to get out at his flat. "Good night, Mycroft," Greg said, turning one last time to offer Mycroft a smile.

"Good night, Greg," Mycroft replied stiffly. His breathing was too fast, his heart thumping in his chest. He felt dizzy. Breathless. His body felt like it was on fire, nerves prickling, overloaded with sensation, and the other man was simply sitting next to him. He wanted to pull Greg closer, kiss him, claim him. But he couldn't. Greg nodded, once, and then got out of the car, carefully closing the door behind him.

Mycroft inhaled sharply. He couldn't. He couldn't. He closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his lips, and the car continued on its way home.


End file.
